


Makeshift Wings

by heavnofhell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9291011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavnofhell/pseuds/heavnofhell
Summary: Lucifer has had his powers stripped from him, and Sam struggles to keep the fallen angel whole.





	

 

 

 

 

**_Beautiful_**.

He _shouldn’t_ think that - feels a small pang of guilt every time the word crosses his mind - but that doesn’t make it any less true, so far as Sam is concerned. Because Lucifer _is_ beautiful, even now… perhaps _especially_ now, and when the hunter lays eyes upon his other half, he is reminded of brilliantly shining diamonds, scattered in fragments across a dark surface, somehow more **luminescent** and **breathtaking** in pieces than they ever were when they were part of a whole.

And Lucifer _is_ broken; or, at very least, he is cracking, slowly, but steadily. Why he was torn from his perdition and tossed into the world this way was yet unconfirmed, but they had their theories. If **God** wanted to crush the pride that had always burned so brightly within **His** favorite son, this was an effective method, cruel as it was.

“Lucifer. It’s late. Why don’t you try to sleep?” Sam’s voice is light and casual, but his warm eyes are drinking in every subdued movement of Lucifer’s body, watching as the fallen angel blinks his heavy eyelids repeatedly, taking effort to focus on the hunter’s words.

“Perhaps. Later.” Sam nods, but he knows Lucifer won’t. He hasn’t slept in _days_ , save for a few moments of nodding off uncontrollably, his desperate body fighting his stubborn mind.

“Okay. Just remember to shut off the lamp before you turn in, okay?” This time Lucifer nods, but his eyes are still staring straight out of the small window, watching white snowflakes dance against an onyx sky. Sam turns to walk away, glancing back briefly, unable to stop his hungry eyes from taking in the quiet and peaceful scene… and he thinks, _once again_ , that Lucifer, with his slowly darkening stare and mussed up hair, looks absolutely **beautiful**.

 

“Lucifer…” The younger Winchester speaks in a slow, careful tone, wary of startling the figure before him. Lucifer is sitting on one of the low tables in the library, his head bowed as he looks down at a book lying open in his lap, but his gaze eerily vacant.

“Lucifer, would you like something to eat? Cas made you a peanut butter sandwich. We didn’t have any jelly, though, so he used some sliced strawberries, instead.” Sam smiled softly, a quiet, half-hearted chuckle leaving his lips as he draws closer to the de-powered angel.

When Lucifer looks up at him, there is no spark of light in his empty eyes, and the angles of his face are just a little _too_ sharp, his skin so exceedingly pale, it almost seems to _glow_.

“Hm? No thank you, Sam. I’m not hungry.” No - Lucifer is _never_ hungry. He is fading away slowly. He looks, to Sam, like a porcelain doll, fragile and captivating with its eerie shadow of life, as though the line between real and not real can be defined only by the necessity to _breathe_.

Perhaps that is the **Grace** yet within him. Sam can feel it there, trapped somewhere unreachable. Lucifer must feel it, too, and how frustrating it has to be, to have the one thing you crave be so near, and yet so _unobtainable_. He’s _struggling_. _**He’s losing**_. It’s written in his diminishing features and in the way he is gradually slowing down. But  _yes_ \- even _now_ , Lucifer is hauntingly **beautiful**.

“Would you like something to drink, at least?” Sam’s voice is quieter now, more of a plea than a simple question, and the archangel takes three long breaths before he finally presses his lips together, and gives a weak nod. His eyes are filled with sympathy - sympathy for _Sam_ \- and it breaks the man’s heart. But when he hands Lucifer the glass, and watches him take a short sip of the milk inside, he feels like he could break out into happy laughter, and, after a moment of contemplation, that’s _exactly_ what he does, Lucifer’s ghost of a smile nearly causing Sam’s heart to burst right through his chest.

But that’s the _last time_ he sees Lucifer smile. The days drag on, and Sam searches frantically for a way to fix his shattering angel. He finds nothing, but he refuses to give up. He won’t give up on Lucifer. After all, the archangel never gave up on him.

 

It’s early one Thursday morning when Sam realizes that Lucifer has left all of his undying hope back in the cage, and is no longer willing to fight. The sun is not quite risen, but the hunter was wide awake, something inexplicable, but undeniable having roused him from his deep slumber. There is a dull ache in his chest, and his only thoughts are of Lucifer.

His search is frantic, and, when he turns up no traces within the bunker, he moves outside, shoving open the heavy metal door, snow piling up high on the other side. The air is frigid, and the wind bites at his uncovered face relentlessly. The hunter zips his Carhartt up a little higher, his boots leaving large imprints in the thick snow as he trudges out into the biting dawn.

He doesn’t need to go far, however, before he spots the missing archangel, and his heart drops to his feet. Sam crosses the distance in a second, dropping heavily to his knees before the terrifyingly _still_ form of his other half. Lucifer is sitting on a large rock just a few meters from the bunker’s entrance, his bare feet buried deep beneath the snow, his brilliant blue eyes half-closed as he sways slightly in the bitter wind.

“ _Lucifer_.” This time his voice is beyond a plea - it is a prayer, sent up to the very creature he kneels before, his hands fumbling to pull off his over-sized gloves, his warm fingers reaching up desperately to cup Lucifer’s freezing face. 

“Hey - how long have you been out here, Luce?” He’s searching that flawless face, tears choking him as he takes in the unresponsive gaze, and he’s screaming inside because Lucifer _can’t_ be gone - Lucifer can’t give up now, not after all he has endured. _It isn’t fucking fair_. _ **None of this is fair**_.

“Come here…” Sam pulls the archangel to him, rising up and lifting Lucifer’s limp body into his arms, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks when he realizes it is far easier than it should be. He shoves his way back inside, not bothering to remove his boots as he moves down the stairs, pulling Lucifer closer to his chest as he manages to get them to his room.

Sam immediately lays the angel upon his bed, pulling off his heavy coat and dropping it to the floor as he moves to the closet, grabbing a clean towel from the upper shelf, and an old sweatshirt from its hanger. The hunter nearly trips over his discarded jacket as he returns hastily to Lucifer’s side, quickly drying his feet with the towel, before reaching into his beside stand for a pair of thick socks, putting them onto the angel’s feet with care.

Sam then reaches down to hoist Lucifer up once more, pulling him close and cradling his head against the crook of his neck as he picks up the sweatshirt, leaning back and beginning the tricky work of maneuvering the clothing over Lucifer’s head of unruly blond hair. He gently lies the angel back down, and patiently works his arms into the sleeves, focusing upon the work with all of his attention, clenching his jaw when he feels the familiar burning behind his eyes.

“ _Sam_.” Sam is just covering the archangel in blankets, when his name rises up between them, soft and curious and the **purest sound** that the hunter has ever heard. He looks into the glacier blues, his heart skipping a beat when he sees something like **_life_ ** behind them, however dull and tired.

“Hey!” His greeting is filled with excitement, but his voice is a hoarse whisper, the one word wavering as it leaves his tongue. Lucifer is watching him, his eyebrow twitching lightly like he’s working to puzzle something out, and Sam can’t stop the choked bark of laughter that jumps up from his constricted throat at the warm familiarity of the expression. For just that split second, he feels like he’s looking into the face of his archangel again, and not the broken, nearly-human shell he was becoming.

“What’s wrong?” Lucifer is pushing himself up, looking slightly startled for a moment when he glances down to the sweatshirt, before releasing a quiet hiss of pain, no doubt finally feeling the stabbing pain in his limbs as his body warms to a normal temperature.

“Hey now - why don’t you lie back down for me? You need to rest, Luce.” He places his hand upon Lucifer’s chest with the utmost care, almost afraid to apply pressure, but desperate to coax the angel back down onto the mattress. Thankfully, Lucifer seems to understand, and he almost falls back down, grimacing again in pain before looking up to Sam, his eyes darkening as the realization creeps over him.

When Lucifer pulls his gorgeous eyes away from the hunter’s face, Sam says nothing. Instead, he reaches up to pull the blankets higher over the angel’s chest, his warm fingers carding gently through the tufts of blond in a slow, soothing motion. But Lucifer is already shutting himself away again, and, _God_ , Sam can’t let him see his tears - but he isn’t going to leave. Not now.

Hesitantly, the man lowers himself down beside his angel, turning onto his side, one arm tucked beneath his own head, the other reaching out tentatively to rest atop Lucifer’s chest. The other doesn’t respond - _of course not_ \- but Sam keeps his hand there, and he _lives_ with every breath that Lucifer takes, matching his own to the slow rhythm, feeling all at once both whole, and as though he is missing something **vital** \- as though he can breathe, but the air isn’t clean enough, and he’s drowning on dry land.

He’s watching the angel’s face, and there is a flush in his cheeks from the recirculating blood, and his eyes look like they are burning from the reflection of the warm bathroom light, and he looks more _alive_ than Sam has seen in a _very_ long time. And _dammit_ , why does he look so **beautiful** when he’s so _ **goddamn broken?**_

Lucifer doesn’t venture from Sam’s room often after that, and, therefore, neither does Sam. He is terrified of what he’ll find when he returns, even if he only leaves to get food from the kitchen. Dean shakes his head and clicks his tongue and tells Sam they should put him away somewhere, and it takes every ounce of willpower Sam has not to punch his brother square in the jaw, knowing the reaction is uncalled for, but maybe his nerves are just that shot.

The man takes anything dangerous from the room - he keeps his razor in the kitchen and he moves all of his weapons back into the armory. He’d rather take on an assailant with his bare hands, than face the alternative risk. Even so, he wakes up in the night from painful nightmares. He sees the archangel’s pale skin decorated in rivulets of crimson, his piercing blue eyes shining out from his pallid face with a muted satisfaction as the life he deems so worthless slowly drains from his body.

Lucifer doesn’t comment on it - he hardly speaks, at all - but Sam could swear he still sees right into the hunter’s mind. On those nights he jerks awake, breathing raggedly and clutching at the blankets, he finds good fortune comes from his tortured subconscious. Cool fingers will run though his shaggy hair with a feathery touch, tracing the stubble that grows upon his cheek with purpose. Sam shaves less often now, because the task takes too long, and he refuses to let something so _unnecessary_ cost him **everything**.

And the archangel _knows_. Sam doesn’t know how, but he sees it in his eyes, and he feels it in his touch, and he wishes it meant something to Lucifer - that it would convince him of his importance. But, in his eyes, Sam doesn’t see that gratitude. Instead, he sees _regret_ \- and he knows his other half well enough to know that he thinks himself a _burden_.

And then an idea comes to Sam. One day, when he returns from a quick shower, he finds Lucifer upon his bed, a book lying on the mattress before him. It must have been tucked away in the old bookshelf, and it was one Sam hadn’t noticed before. He approaches the angel slowly, watching him curiously as he traces his finger slowly over something on the page. When the man finally has a view of the open book, he sucks in a short and quiet breath.

Whatever the book is - something regarding nature, Sam assumes - it contains a photo of a large bird on one page, and the diagram of a feather on the next. Lucifer’s slender finger is delicately tracing the lines of that feather, his eyes distant and filled with emotions that are in short supply these days.

As Sam leans over to look, a droplet of water falls from his hair, hitting the page like a heavy drop of rain. Lucifer looks up with a small inhalation of surprise, slamming the book shut simultaneously, and dropping it onto the bedside table.

“You can read it, Lucifer. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Sam immediately regrets interrupting, and the angel just shakes his head, gesturing toward the book dismissively.

“It wasn’t all that interesting.”

But he was wrong. For Sam, it became the source of _endless fascination_ , and it set his gears turning, a plan coming into mind. He begins to make trips to their library on a regular basis, scouring the old collection for anything on birds or feathers, and bringing them back to his room. He sticks them away in the corner of his closet, bringing them out only on those rare occasions when Lucifer has fallen asleep, his body no longer able to resist the need for rest.

Sam sits on the floor in the dim light that streams out from the cracked bathroom door, tracing the pages with a sharp blade he keeps in a small box beneath the kitchen sink, next to his razor. He works quietly and patiently, using what time he is allotted by the slumbering archangel, his task taking dozens of sessions over the next month. There are a few times he looks up to see those heart-stopping, breathtaking eyes staring at him curiously from where Lucifer is stretched out upon the bed, and the hunter smiles brightly, quickly pushing his scraps into a book and closing the cover.

 

By the time he has completed the first part of his self-appointed task, it seems that Lucifer has fallen into something of a _limbo_. He isn’t actively growing stronger, nor is he breaking himself further. He’s still far too thin, and he doesn’t sleep nearly enough, but he’s found stable footing… although Sam fears that the slightest unexpected tremor will send him crashing down again. He _needs_ to use this window.

He asks Castiel to sit with Lucifer for an afternoon, giving him videos and books and games - anything to keep the angelic brothers occupied. He always marvels at how well they take to one another these days - Lucifer seems to take a unique comfort in being near his brother, and Castiel manages to gracefully combine respect and concern, treating the fallen archangel reverently, but with the tender care of a concerned sibling.

Sam spends the time in the garage, working away at his little project, returning a few hours later to find the brothers sitting quietly on opposite sides of a checker board, a small smile on Castiel’s face, and a subdued look of concentration furrowing Lucifer’s brows gently. Sam sits down at the foot of the bed, watching silently as they finish the game, both taking great care in gathering each small piece and placing it back into the box.

He watches with a mixture of wonder and amusement when Castiel, tucking the board beneath his arm, leans down to kiss his brother lightly on the temple. Sam has no idea where he picked up such a gesture, and he’s even more amazed that Lucifer doesn’t seem to mind, the man unable to hide the wide grin on his face as he bids Castiel goodnight.

“Lucifer - will you come with me for a moment? I want to show you something.” He stands near the edge of the bed, his voice soft and low and he watches the angel expectantly. Lucifer’s eyes turn up to meet Sam’s own, and he gives a short nod, easing himself from the mattress and walking to the door, turning back to allow Sam to take the lead.

The hunter smiles and nods, feeling suddenly _nervous_ as he moves through the door, pausing for just a moment, before reaching out and taking up Lucifer’s cool hand in his own. He pulls him through the bunker and down to the garage, stopping a moment when they enter the dark space.

“Sam?” Lucifer’s hushed voice is filled with confusion, and the man gives his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze.

“I made something for you, Luce. If you don’t like it, that’s okay… but…” He presses his lips together, feeling foolish for the uncontrollable butterflies in his stomach. With a deep breath, he reaches over and turns on the light, illuminating the large garage, watching the archangel as he blinks rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the new light.

He knows the moment Lucifer sees them - the large, paper wings, propped up upon a work table. He had used strong wire to create the curving backbone of the set, like two little half-arcs, bent into the flowing slope of wings. Attached were countless paper feathers, each one having been cut carefully from the pages of dozens of books and articles, all varying shapes and sizes, yet, _somehow_ , Sam has managed to work them together seamlessly. They are hanging freely from the wires, draping down like paper curtains, connected to one another with meticulously looped string.

Sam holds his breath as Lucifer stares straight ahead, his eyes unblinking as he slowly pulls his hand free of the hunter’s, stepping carefully forward. For a moment, Sam feels a wave of _fear_ ; what should happen if Lucifer thought he was taunting him? What would he do if the archangel grew to resent him for an act so _insensitive_. _Had_ it been in poor taste? Maybe it had. Lucifer was so quiet, his fingers reaching out to brush lightly against the paper - clearly he thought Sam was making a joke of his condition.

The thoughts whirl around in the hunter’s head, and Sam opens his mouth, a desperate apology poised on his tongue when a quiet sound steals his words away. **_A sob_**. It is a heart-wrenching sound, rising up from the quiet archangel and ripping Sam’s soul in half. He rushes forward, cursing himself with every beat of his hammering heart, Lucifer’s name rushing from his lips as he reaches the archangel’s side.

“Sam - you _made_ these?” Lucifer’s cobalt eyes turn to look at his other half, and Sam finds himself suddenly _mute_. There is a smile on the angel’s lips, despite the tears streaming down his pale face, and his eyes shine with the light that has been missing for months. Sam swallows down hard, nodding silently as he searches for his voice.

“I made them for _you_.” His voice is as choked sounding as the archangel’s had been, but Lucifer’s smile grows, more tears pooling over and streaming down his cheeks. “Lucifer - whatever happens - with or without your **Grace** \- you will _always_ be the light that leads me on, just as you always have been. You are my **Morning Star** , and I _need_ you, Lucifer - I _need_ you to be here. Because you’re my guardian angel, and you _always_ will be.” He smiles weakly, knowing that his words are probably overly sappy and romantic, but finding that he doesn’t care.

“Sam.” Lucifer shakes his head, his lips trembling as he sucks in another sharp breath, his eyes darting back toward the paper wings. “They’re **_beautiful_**.” He’s still staring at them, enraptured and filled with so, _so much life_ , and Sam can’t help but reach out to him, his warm fingers wiping the tears gently from the archangel’s cheek.

“Lucifer.” He whispers his angel’s name with nothing but love and reverence, the sound of a man at worship, still so in awe to find himself in the presence of **Heaven’s Brightest Son**. The archangel turns to look at him, his brows pinched together as he studies Sam with his own look of adoration and wonder.

“Lucifer…  _please_ \- _**stay**_.” They both know what he means, the weight of the request so heavy and heartbreaking, and Lucifer is without words, another strangled sob leaving his throat as he begins to nod vigorously, his entire body more alive and animated than it has been for a _very long time_.

“ _Yes_. _Yes_ , Sam.” He can hardly force the words out, but it doesn’t matter, because Sam sees the truth in his eyes, and he knows they can make it through this. He opens his arms, and Lucifer crashes into him, gripping at his shirt and burying his face into his neck, and he’s _crying_ and he’s _breathing_ and he’s _here_ and he’s so very, very **_alive_** , and it makes Sam’s heart cry with more happiness than he thinks he’s ever felt. His arms pull the archangel close, and he holds his alarmingly frail body as tightly as he can, as though he is the only thing that is keeping him from shattering into a million pieces upon the concrete floor.

Lucifer isn’t broken. He might be cracked and he might be bent, but he is still here, and he is still **fighting** \- and _that_ , Sam thinks, makes him more beautiful than ever before.


End file.
